


Outtakes From a Field Experiment

by warriorpoet



Category: Fake News RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-04
Updated: 2010-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-13 12:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warriorpoet/pseuds/warriorpoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five things you didn't see in Responsible Drinking (and two things that happened the next day).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Outtakes From a Field Experiment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



**9:38pm**

Steve is half way through the second drink when he cuts a sidelong glance at Stephen.

"Are we really gonna keep rolling the whole time?"

"Until we run out of tape, absolutely. I don't want to miss anything."

"I still can't believe you pussed out on doing this with me," Steve mutters into the glass.

"I told you –"

"I don't care what you told me! This would be better with both of us doing it."

"Wow, you're getting combative very early. I honestly thought you could hold your booze better than this."

"Shut up."

Stephen smirks down at his notes as Steve polishes off the rest of the drink. Two down.

"We'll agree to creative disagreement," Stephen says.

Steve stares at him. "Are you actually writing anything?"

"Of course I am. It's not scientific if I don't take notes."

He leans over in the booth and looks down at the notepad. "You just drew a penis."

"Because you're being a dick."

"Thank you, world expert in dirty hieroglyphics, Professor Colbert."

Stephen grins. "Yeah, keep drinking, chuckles."

"No, I just want to say something while I'm still completely sober to get it on the record, and to prove to you that my level of honesty doesn't change."

"All right, go ahead."

Steve stares directly into the camera. "Once, I went into Jon's office without knocking and I caught..." he pauses and takes a deep breath, and Stephen frowns at him. "I saw him," Steve continues, "making out with... he keeps an... an inflatable love doll. In his bathroom. It has... it has a picture of Stephen taped over its face, with a hole cut out for the mouth. He—he was _touching_ it... Oh, God—"

"Are you done?" Stephen asks dryly.

"Yeah, I'm done." Steve shrugs. "It'll be funny to show at the Christmas party."

Stephen glares at him as he passes the next drink over. "Keep drinking."

 

**10:44pm**

"… because… he's sexy, but he doesn't point to it."

Over an hour and eight and a half drinks in and Steve's on a tear about Antonio Banderas and Stephen can't quite believe that he's trying to conduct this like it's a rational conversation.

"You don't think he points to it?"

"No."

Stephen is about to ask exactly what that's supposed to mean, if it means that since Zorro didn't spend two hours with a neon sign pointing at his package it should be commended and rewarded with the bending of the sexuality of a (more-or-less) straight man. But Steve keeps going before he can say anything else.

"I mean… all I'm saying is it's not like he's you." Steve's over-enunciating his words, trying not to sound drunk but clearly long past it.

"Like… me?" Stephen says.

"Yes."

"Would you care to explain that?"

"You have to draw attention to yours."

"My…?"

"Your… you. Always all 'Look at me!' and your stupid persa… persabil… your stupid— your _charm_." Steve shakes his head like he's trying to clear water from his ears. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"Okay."

Steve reaches for his half-full glass and Stephen resists the urge to look up at the crew to check their expressions for how not-at-all-surprised they are by this.

It's going to be a long night.

 

**10:55pm**

"It's nice that we have a chance to just talk, y'know? Just really… _talk_."

Steve is still in the loudly-confident-and-enthusiastic stage of intoxication, and Stephen is still trying to follow his disconnected lines of conversation.

"Sure, it's nice. Because… it's not like all we ever do all day at work is talk to each other."

"No, no, no, no," Steve insists. "That's not the _same_ , and you know it."

"Right, because you're not drunk at work. At least, most days you're not."

Steve glares at the joke, and it makes Stephen laugh.

"No, it's because you're less _annoying_ right now. And because… 'cause you're here. You're never here when we're there."

"Run that by me again?"

"Because… 'cause _he_ is there. So you're not there. Not here… there."

Stephen bites his lip and tries not to laugh, and it's so hard because Steve just looks so _frustrated_.

He breaks when Steve starts yelling at him.

"Don't act stupid! You know what I'm talking about!"

"I promise, I have absolutely no idea," Stephen gasps.

"Jon's in love with you! Or you're in love with Jon!"

Stephen chokes. "What?!"

"Or both. I don't know. I haven't figured it out yet."

"No, I mean what—"

"I'm not saying anything bad about him, and it's not like—I like him too. He's _handsome_ , and he's _witty_ , and—you know what? If you're happy, then I'm happy. That's great. I want you to be happy—"

"Steve, for the love of God, please stop talking."

Steve goes quiet. Stephen scribbles aimless crosshatches onto his note paper and can hear the sullen clinking of glass against glass beside him.

"I'm just saying—"

" _Steve_."

"No, you know what? I don't mean any of this. You know that, right? This is not me talking. It's _this_." He gestures to the gaggle of empty glasses gathered on the table in front of him. "This… _this_ is making me do that."

Stephen is taken aback when Steve slaps him, though it's more the sound of it than anything. Even as an uncoordinated drunken bumbling mess, Steve knows how to make a stage slap look worse than it feels.

"Okay," Stephen says, slow and measured, and now it's Steve who is laughing at him.

It appears as though they've reached the antagonistic-and-belligerent stage of intoxication.

Stephen wracks his brain for something, _anything_ else to talk about that will get Steve worked up. A disagreement they had over a line in a sketch they wrote six years ago. The unsettled and much debated state of a $200 loan from 1991. That time _somebody_ threw half a turkey sandwich across the room and left it behind the couch, making the Second City backstage rat problem far worse than it ever needed to be.

 _Anything_ to stop them from talking about Jon.

It works. It doesn't take long before Steve is telling Stephen to fuck off and trying to goad him into throwing punches.

Yeah, it'll be a long night, but at least it's entertaining.

 

**12:27am**

He starts forcing Steve to drink more water, and the table fills with empty glasses.

Steve slips past antagonistic and belligerent into antagonistic and irritating. He knocks the glasses over, spilling into Stephen's lap, laughing his ass off.

"Don't do that again," Stephen says shortly, and Steve just won't stop laughing. He sends another round of not-quite empty glasses tipping toward Stephen's crotch.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'll fix it," Steve snorts with laughter as he clumsily reaches for Stephen, wiping his hand across the front of his pants. "Th'looks pretty bad, maybe y'should take 'em off." He snickers again.

"Steve, cut it out. _Steve_." Stephen quickly sits down again as Steve starts to fumble at his zipper, tries to unbutton his pants.

"No, no, let me get that, m'sorry," Steve slurs and again brushes his hand over Stephen's thigh, a little too hard and a little too high.

Stephen bites the inside of his mouth. "Stop it," he says through clenched teeth.

Any other time, he probably wouldn't say no. That's what makes this so much worse.

Steve is still touching him, inching higher up his thigh with every brush. Stephen grabs his wrist and gently plucks his hand away, setting it on the table at a comfortable distance from Stephen's crotch.

"I'm fine. Really," Stephen says dryly.

"No. _Really_ ," Steve looks at him with unfocused eyes. "Prob'ly better if you took 'em off now."

"So, Stephen, do you still think this was a good idea?" Stephen mutters under his breath.

"You talkin' to yesself?"

"No. No, I'm not." Stephen grabs some napkins and blots at his pants. He slaps Steve's hand away again when Steve tries to help, which isn't so much "helping" as "groping".

"Yeah y'are. You're crazy…" Steve trails off and then leans in close. Stephen holds his breath, and Steve whispers, "But you're still my favorite. You're better'n Jon. Better'n Banderas, even."

"Thanks. That's really touching."

Stephen scoots out of his grasp and sets to work with the napkins again.

He barely notices Steve taking his shirt off until it's already off. Then he has to pin Steve's arms by his sides to get him to keep his clothes on, and then Steve's hips are bucking up against him—

Stephen does not still think this was a good idea.

 

**1:42am**

He's relieved when the PA refuses to run back to the office for more tape. It's late, they're all tired, and it's probably not going to help Stephen's career if he's responsible for Steve Carell's death by alcohol poisoning. Once Steve has firmly bypassed horny and slipped into sullen and sleepy, Stephen calls it a wrap.

He helps Steve out of the bar, and leads him with a steady hand on his elbow through the treacherous and swaying three blocks to Stephen's car.

Once safely buckled in, Steve mumbles something that Stephen doesn't hear over the soft noise of the radio and the late night hum of the city outside.

"Sorry, buddy, didn't catch that?"

"I meant it," Steve forces out. "You're my favorite."

"Yeah, well, you're not so bad yourself." Stephen chuckles and fiddles with his keychain. "I bet you'll be singing a different tune tomorrow when you've got the king fucker of all hangovers."

He looks up to see Steve wide-eyed, dumbly blinking, starting to lean in. There's not enough time for Stephen to say "Steve, wait—" before Steve's mouth is on his. It's wet and awkward and there's far too much tongue, and he tastes and smells exactly like he's spent his night as the human subject in an intoxication experiment. But the feeling of Steve's hand bunching the shirt at Stephen's shoulder, and the soft groan he makes… if it were _any other time—_

Stephen gently pushes him away.

"You don't…" he trails off and shakes his head, turning his attention back to the keys in the ignition. "C'mon, let's get you to bed with a monster thermos of coffee."

Steve slumps against the passenger door as Stephen pulls out into the street.

A dozen blocks uptown, Steve mumbles, "Pull over. I wan' get in back."

Stephen glances over and sees him pale, eyes clenched shut. "There's nowhere to park, Steve… just hold on, it's not much—"

"I need to lie down."

"Just hold on, Steve, we're—"

He doesn't get a chance to finish the sentence before Steve is twisting toward the back seat and retching and the interior upholstery of Stephen's Volvo is forever changed.

Stephen sighs as Steve slumps over the dashboard, wiping at his mouth and weakly offering an apology.

"You know, if you'd succeeded in giving me a boner at any point tonight, that would've completely killed it."

He rolls his window down and breathes in fresh, garbage tainted air, while Steve makes unintelligible wounded noises.

 

**10:37am**

Jon stops Stephen on the way out of the morning meeting.

"How was the shoot last night?"

Stephen coughs and smiles behind his hand. "Um… Steve… _probably_ won't be in today."

"That good, huh?"

"He puked in my car."

" _Seriously_?" Jon laughs. "I'd offer to pay for the cleaning, but… you two _were_ responsible for the idea, and I think if you'll recall, I thought it wasn't a good one…"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Hold off judgment until you see the finished thing. It'll kill."

They start down the hall to Stephen's office. "Can I see some raw footage?"

"Maybe wait until it's done? So as not to spoil it? I'm going to start going through it today, and start working on cutting it. We'll try to get it done in time to air when you're off next week. Then you can pretend you had absolutely nothing to do with it."

"You know, we have people whose job it is to log footage. You don't have to do it yourself."

"Yeah, but… I don't know. I kind of feel bad about letting a lot of people see it…"

Jon's eyes go wide. "Why? What happened? What did he do?"

"Nothing. Nothing specific."

"So you're okay with showing it to a couple million people on television, but you won't let the people in the office see it?"

"A _couple million_ , Jon? _Really_?" Stephen deadpans.

"Don't change the subject."

Stephen sighs. "That's the cleaned up version, though. I can… keep the worst out—not that anything bad really _happened_ , just… I don't know."

"You feel protective of him?"

"Sure. Okay. If that will end this conversation, then, yes. I feel protective of him." Stephen pauses at the door to his office. "Besides, it's better to save the really good stuff to screen at the Christmas party."

Jon grins. "Steve's birthday is sooner."

"I'll try to keep the montage under ten minutes."

"Atta boy."

 

**3:14pm**

He takes a break from slogging through the tape to call Steve. The call is answered with a croaking, "Hello?"

"You're alive."

"I hate you."

"Your idea, pal."

"I hate me too."

"So, do you… remember anything?" It's not at all subtle, but Stephen can't help himself. He has to know.

"It's—the word 'hazy' seems like an understatement."

"Well, going through the tape, I just have to say that I admire your commitment to the bit."

Steve groans. "Is it really that bad?"

"At least it's funny."

There's silence on the other end of the phone. Eventually, he hears Steve cough and then a quiet, "I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"I'm not sure exactly, but I have this feeling something happened that I need to apologize for."

"No," Stephen assures him. "It's okay. You don't. But, um… we'll split the bill for fixing my car and call it even."

Steve is quiet again, the silence broken by his sudden exclamation of, "Oh, God. Your car! I—oh. _Oh_. Shit, Stephen, I… Did I—oh, God, what have I done?"

"It's okay, Steve, really. Don't worry about it." He does his best to sound more reassuring and less please-can-we-never-speak-of-this-again.

"I'm sorry," Steve gasps again. "I… do—you have enough footage to, you know… cut around, right? To get something that's okay to air? Don't you?"

"I'm working on it now. It'll be fine."

"Okay. Thank you. I'm… I'll go back to bed now and maybe when I wake up this whole thing will have been a dream, and it'll be two days ago and I can tell you this was a bad idea."

Stephen chuckles. "Okay. You coming in tomorrow?"

"I might need another day. I'll come back as soon as my eyeballs stop screaming and trying to tunnel into the back of my skull."

"You lazy son of a bitch."

"Shove it up your ass."

Stephen laughs and says goodbye and heads back to the editing room.

He has a lot of stuff to cut out.


End file.
